


Bust

by yeaka



Category: Andromeda (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:16:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In-between missions, Harper tries to do repairs and Tyr puts him to another use.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bust

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Andromeda or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.
> 
> A/N: Thanks so much to abbeyjewel for betaing for me!

For once in a very blue moon, the Andromeda Ascendant is functioning perfectly, thanks in no small part to the genius of Seamus Harper, who can barely remember the last time he had a ship so spotless. Now it’s all just little upgrades and leftover experiments and a few healthy doses of ‘me’ time, so when one of the maintenance bots drops off the sensors, Seamus actually notices before Rommie does. A part of him is sickly excited to have something necessary to do again, though he’d never admit it.

Instead he tells the Andromeda’s flickering image that appears right behind his workbench, “Already on it. Never fear, fair maiden—the Harper is on the case!” She doesn’t quite roll her eyes at him, but she gives him that flat, not-amused look that says she would if she were human. Fortunately, Seamus is immune to eye-rolls, explicit or otherwise, and he plucks a pre-packed tool kit (one of those products of too much free time) and heads for the door through her blinking out image. The Engineering doors slide cleanly apart for him, sans-metallic-squeak. Fixing that was his morning. Hopefully his evening will pack a little more punch. As much as he likes being safe, he sort of feels like the bad times must just be compiling, and once Dylan finally does get around to blasting them near death again, the storm will be twice as bad to pay for the calm.

The halls are empty on his way to the basketball court, save for a few maintenance robots meandering about. He notices a spark in the left knee cap of one and makes a mental note to patch that up later, knowing full well he only ever remembers half his mental notes, superior intellect or no.

By the time he gets down to the converted rec deck, Seamus already has the speech all laid out in his head: how he’s a very busy man, and it’s bad enough Dylan wrecks the outside of the ship during grand galactic exploits—he doesn’t have to go busting internal parts in the interim. Seamus can’t do everything around here. He already does the most. The least the others can do is take care of everything he’s made and maintains.

The doors swish open, the ball thunders against the hard floor, ricochets up and into Tyr’s hand, is slammed towards the hoop, and pummels the board above it so hard that Seamus actually winces, fearing the whole thing will come apart.

Dylan’s nowhere to be seen, and the broken, twitching bot is lying across the floor. Its legs and elbows are making mechanical, repetitive movements. It’s a sad sight that Tyr completely ignores. He spares Seamus a single glance, then smoothly returns to his one-on-self game, which seems to be more of assault on the ball and hoop than any actual sport.

It doesn’t take a genius—which Seamus is—to figure out what happened to the metal doll. When Seamus beelines for it, he’s careful to keep out of Tyr’s way, even if he came down prepared to talk a big game. Something on Tyr’s face is even more animal than usual, and Tyr can scare Seamus on the best of days. Right now, he’s glaring at his target like he’s about to grow fangs the size of the spikes on his forearms, howl in the faux-moonlight and go tearing through the ship on all fours.

Seamus has to shake his head to discard the imagery. Tyr would make a good werewolf. Or vampire. Or pretty much anything beastly. His body’s already monstrous, highlighted by the usual lack of shirt and a thin sheen of sweat across his tight pecs. He must’ve been at this for a while—it takes a lot to make a Nietzschean like Tyr sweat.

He reeks of it. Seamus can smell the musk of raw _man_ even over the spilt grease dribbling down the bot’s neck. Seamus stops at it and bends down to his knees, one foot flat on the ground and poised to jump up should Tyr run back his way. He drops the toolkit and tells himself to focus on repairs, don’t even engage an uber in an aggressive state—survival rule number one—but Seamus is Seamus and absolutely no good at ever keeping quiet.

He blurts, “What the hell’d you do to this poor thing?” It’s accompanied by an incredulous look that may or may not just be an excuse to stare at a shirtless Tyr.

Tyr finishes his leap into the air, slams the ball through the hoop and tears the netting on the way down—Dylan won’t be happy—lands with a slam that sends tremors through the deck, and straightens back up. Tossing his long hair over his shoulder, he turns to Seamus with the usual bored frown and drawls, “It wasn’t very good at basketball.”

Seamus doesn’t point out that he isn’t either (not really his fault, given his height and the incredibly unfair way basketball revolves around that) and Tyr’s not setting into him. He doesn’t want to give Tyr any ideas. Instead he just spends a second staring, while Tyr’s hands land on his hips, posture perfect, all hard muscles and chiseled lines and smooth mocha skin. The way the sweat makes his abs glisten makes him look like something off a sleazy magazine cover, and the skin-tight leather pants aren’t helping. For a daring second, Seamus is caught just taking it all in.

But then Tyr turns back around, dribbling his ball. Harper, aware he’s losing the moment, swallows and half-teases, half-scolds, “You really need to find a better way to work out your frustrations.” Tyr stops mid-dash, looking back at him. “Than general destruction, I mean.” Even as he thinks his next thought, he knows he shouldn’t say it, but his mouth is already open and he spills, “Clearly it’s been too long for you, but that’s no reason to take it out on Andromeda’s parts!”

Tyr lifts a casual eyebrow and repeats in his deceptively soft voice, “Been too long?”

“Yeah, since, you know,” and Seamus tilts his head with his eyebrows lifted, making one of his faces that usually makes Tyr tune him out and turn away.

Today, Tyr snorts, taking a step closer across the open court. He offhandedly bounces the ball away, eyes trained on Seamus’ crouching form. Seamus is suddenly hyper aware of how close he is to the back wall, how easily trapped he could be. “I’ve certainly gotten more than you have, little man.”

The nickname makes Seamus bristle. He should be used to it by now, but isn’t, and he barks, “Hey—”

“You’re the one that drools like a dog over everything with a pulse, even an artificial one.” Tyr’s moving closer, closer, and at only a meter away, his lips twist into a smirk, brow lifting as he sighs, “And yet, for all your pathetic slobbering and big talk, I wouldn’t even be surprised to find out you were a virgin.”

Seamus can feel his cheeks flushing. His fingers tighten around the wrench he’s half-pulled out of the tool kit. “I am not!” he really _isn’t_ , and he doesn’t drool, not exactly. Tyr’s still moving, just slower, and the closer he gets, the more Seamus can smell the sweat rolling off him, see the bulge to his muscles, the way his too-tight pants stretch across his skin. “And I could get some anytime I wanted, I’ve just been... uh... busy.” Yeah. Busy.

“Oh, really?”

Seamus swallows. Another step, and Tyr’s within arm’s reach. Dropping the wrench, Seamus starts to straighten, just in case he has to run, though of course he wouldn’t be fast enough, and before he’s even standing straight, he feels like he’s walked head-first into a cloud of boiling _Tyr Anasazi_ pheromones, dancing all around him. He licks his lips and mutters, “Y-yeah... I’m irresistible... everybody wants me.” The usual show of confidence doesn’t ring through in his voice. He’s too distracted. He’s looking up at Tyr, and Tyr’s staring down at him, and then Tyr closes that last step, and Tyr’s knees are brushing his, except Tyr’s are sturdy and his are shaking.

Seamus is horribly, undeniably turned on. Just like he usually is when Tyr swoops in, half undressed with billowing power and dominating Seamus with a single look. But it’s already gone half a step farther than it usually does, and even if Seamus knows this has been a long time coming, he’s still stunned and it’s still unexpected.

Tyr’s hands slip easily over Seamus’ arms, fist around his smaller biceps, shove him backwards, and he stumbles. Tyr glides forward, half holding Seamus up and half plowing him onwards, and in a couple of tripping steps, they hit the wall, and Tyr slams Seamus into it with inescapable force. Seamus can feel the metal shaking beneath him. Still, Tyr keeps moving, flattens into him, crushes him in place. There’s nowhere for Seamus to go; he’s sandwiched against the wall. He turns his head away when Tyr leans down, whispering right into his ear, “You’re pathetic.” Seamus’ eyes scrunch closed, breathing ragged—he can feel the front bulge in Tyr’s pants grinding into his stomach, huge and firm. Tyr’s voice is a particularly seductive brand of honey that makes Seamus light-headed and dizzy, especially when it’s hissed right into him. “I can smell that you’re turned on like a bitch in heat, just like all kludges get when they’re cornered by their superiors.”

Seamus moans. He should hate that. He normally hates that word. He should hate the implication. But it _has_ been too long for him and Tyr is _so damn hot_ and Seamus is shameless and right now he doesn’t want anything more than to be brutally fucked apart by Tyr Anasazi, out of Victoria by Barbarosa, and he doesn’t even care if Tyr’s still a dick to him all throughout: all he cares about is that he’s _finally_ getting to feel Tyr’s cock, and he wants that sensation without all the clothes between.

Tyr’s hands slowly travel down Seamus’ arms, slipping from his biceps to elbows, down to his forearms, onto his wrists. Then Tyr starts to move them up, and Seamus lets Tyr bend him, lets his hands be pinned above his head. Tyr grips both of Seamus’ wrists with one hand, and that leaves the other free to slide down and cup Seamus’ face, thumb his cheek and reach back through his hair.

Seamus doesn’t open his eyes, because he isn’t ready just yet to see Tyr’s stupid smirk. He bites the inside of his mouth so he won’t say anything to ruin it. He’s trying to hold his hips back from grinding furiously forward, trying to hump Tyr’s crotch and get _more_. He wants to jump up and lock his legs around Tyr—he knows how easy it would be for Tyr to pin his weight to the wall, to shred open his pants and fuck him right against it, standing, in the air, so effortless for a big, strong Nietzschean. This is one of many fantasies that Seamus can never tell a soul.

Tyr’s hand drops from his face. It slides down his shoulder and runs over his chest, not so much feeling as tracing, even though Seamus arches into it. He’s just waiting for Tyr to laugh at him. Tyr stokes down his side, shifts around his back, then runs a giant hand, fingers splayed open, down the curve of his ass, cups it and squeezes. Seamus lets out a filthy moan and can’t hold back any longer—he thrusts his hips forward and tries to rut into Tyr. Tyr’s hips grind him down, and between that and Tyr’s hand, Seamus doesn’t have any more room to move. Tyr’s hand kneads his ass through his pants, middle finger pressing in to slide along Seamus’ crack, and Seamus becomes aware that he’s making a high-pitched keening noise. Maybe it’s a good thing Tyr’s holding his hands still; otherwise he’d just be throwing his arms around Tyr’s shoulders: even more embarrassing. For a few torturous moments, Seamus is helpless while Tyr plays with his ass, digs between his cheeks and cups and squeezes and rubs. By the end of it, Seamus is squirming and panting and trying _so hard_ to grind into Tyr’s crotch, Tyr’s tight stomach, Tyr’s taut pecs, Tyr’s strong thighs, every little piece of Tyr Anasazi that seems to have been sculpted by a god.

And then Tyr stops and pulls away all at once. Seamus’ hands are released, and without Tyr’s weight holding him up, he collapses, knees giving way. He crumples down onto them, eyes flying open and staring dazedly up, and Tyr fists one hand in his hair to steady him.

A single step back in, feet to either side of Seamus’ knees, and Tyr’s groin is directly in Seamus’ face, so close that his nose is digging into the fabric. Seamus _stares._ Tyr’s free hand drops to bring down his zipper, and all Seamus can do is watch, mesmerized, as Tyr pulls his massive cock out of his pants, so thick and long that it fills Seamus’ vision, and he goes cross eyed trying to look at it. As soon as Tyr lets go of his base, it hits Seamus’ face, landing right along his nose, and he closes his eye on that side. The stench of it is intoxicating and fills Seamus’ every breath. With how little room he has to move, he can hardly see Tyr’s massive balls hanging half out of the zipper, and for once in his life, Seamus Harper is speechless.

He knew Tyr would have a monster cock. He knew it. But it still didn’t prepare him for the real thing, veined and pulsing and so strong it looks like a muscle, like it would take an hour of preparation to get it inside him and even then still tear him apart. Seamus’ mouth is watering. He probably _is_ drooling. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, the usual witty, Harper charm, but then Tyr jerks him back by the hair, and he cries out in pain at the sharp crick it puts in his neck. The bulbous head of Tyr’s cock slips down his face, dragging on his skin, and Tyr takes hold of himself again and places the tip against Harper’s bottom lip.

“About time someone put that big mouth of yours to use,” Tyr comments, and then he’s shoving in.

Seamus had a reply ready, but it’s cut off and muffled before it gets anywhere. Suddenly he’s full, fuller than he can manage—he stretches his jaw as wide as it can go, and it practically unhinges. Tyr just keeps pushing, emitting a sharp, hissing sound at the drag of Seamus’ teeth that he just can’t get back enough. Not with how insanely wide Tyr is. Tyr hits the back of Seamus’ throat and uses his grip on Seamus’ hair to try and jerk him forward, but Seamus is full and just gags.

He masters that reflex an instant later. This has been way too long in the making to ruin it by choking to death. Not that anyone would be able to blame him. Seamus scrambles to adjust, forcing the muscles of his throat to relax, and his hands flail forward to land on Tyr’s thighs, fisting in Tyr’s pants. He holds on for dear life and looks up past the dark curls and tight muscles up to Tyr’s gorgeous face, staring down at him. A few locks of Tyr’s hair have fallen over his shoulders, and the more Seamus looks at him, the more his lips twist into a smirk. Seamus’ hands are trembling. He’s struggling to breathe through his nose.

Tyr tastes bland and a little salty and Seamus can’t get much more than that, because his tongue is flattened along the bottom of his mouth and he has no room to move it. He doesn’t know if he can take Tyr down his throat. Maybe with practice. Can they do this again? He’ll get better every time. He sits with it for a few seconds before Tyr rolls his eyes and juts his hips forward, slamming the back of Seamus’ skull into the wall. He gags again and gets the idea, but there’s no room to perform his usual tricks. Instead, he settles for constricting his whole throat. Sucking is the only thing he can do, so he sucks on Tyr’s cock for dear life, hollowing out what little room is left in his cheeks and shutting his eyes with the force of it, concentrating on every little feeling. Tyr makes an appreciative groaning noise, and it sets Seamus on fire. _Victory._

He sucks harder. He sucks better. His hands run up Tyr’s thighs, shaking, move around Tyr’s balls, cup them and tug, just lightly, roll them around in his palms, memorizing, feeling. Then he wraps all ten fingers around the base of Tyr’s cock, the part his mouth can’t reach, and he holds it out and squeezes once and strokes his thumbs along the underside. Tyr’s hand moves in his hair almost like petting him; Seamus feels like a dog that’s been good. If his mouth were free, he’d bark in excitement. He could be Tyr’s pet; he could be Tyr’s _anything_.

Tyr finally loosens up, takes that half a step back, and Seamus eagerly follows. It gives him room to slide off though, and there’s a loud, wet smacking noise when he does. His saliva trails between his lips and Tyr’s foreskin. Seamus barely makes it a centimeter away before he’s leaning back in, tilting his head and running his lips all over the head, kissing it and licking it. He twists back to the front and sticks his tongue against the slit, worms against it, hands pumping up and down and catching on Tyr’s sweat and his own spit. He’s never seen anything so glorious, and all he wants to do is turn around, get down on all fours, stick out his ass and beg to be fucked. Surely that’s where this is going, right? Tyr’s always teasing Seamus about being so small; surely he must think Seamus is tighter for it. Seamus’ brain fills with the erotic image of sitting in Tyr’s lap in Tyr’s quarters—no, in the pilot’s chair, right on the bridge—and riding his big cock. Grabbing his huge shoulders. Fitting so easily there and having Tyr holding his waist and slamming him up and down...

But Tyr growls, and Seamus opens his mouth back up, sliding right back on. He takes Tyr just as far, and this time sucks on the way in, still pumping his hands. The more he sucks, the better it tastes. Seamus is hard in his own pants, but he doesn’t dare touch himself; he doesn’t want to come early, and he could burst at any minute over the stench of sex and the sight of Tyr’s perfect body alone. He pushes down Tyr’s cock, pulls half off, and shoves right back on. He starts to piston his head, bobbing up and down on it with a wild fervor. His lips are soaking wet and his own spit is pooling at the corners and dribbling along the underside of Tyr’s cock, but Seamus doesn’t care. Right now, his entire world’s zeroed down to Tyr’s dick and what Seamus can do for it.

That _right now_ lasts an absurdly long time. It’s not that Seamus minds; it’s that the whole time, he’s just waiting for Tyr to pull out and pull Seamus back up and fuck him hard against the wall. It gets harder and harder not to touch himself, but he doesn’t want to let go of Tyr’s cock, not for anything. He should’ve known Tyr would have ridiculous stamina. No matter how hard Tyr gets, no matter how much Seamus sucks and licks and whines around it, Tyr doesn’t even hump his face, just stands maddeningly stoic and lets Seamus do all the work, lets Seamus fuck his own face on Tyr’s dick. The only saving grace is that Tyr’s hand stays in Seamus’ hair and occasionally pets him and brushes it back. Eventually, Tyr hisses, then moans, then _growls_ , and that same noise that usually terrifies Seamus only makes him so horny he can barely stand it. Then Tyr _screams_ , and Seamus’ eardrums nearly burst, and he looks up just in time to see Tyr’s face twist over his orgasm.

A jet of hot, sticky cum bursts against the back of Seamus’ throat. He chokes in surprise, but doesn’t have any room to recover—Tyr’s hips do jerk forward, slam him to the wall again, and Seamus is helplessly pinned there while Tyr’s cock spills load after load. It’s like he’s pouring a small river down Seamus’ throat. It’s strong and constant and thick and comes faster than Seamus can swallow it. He tries, but he can’t keep up, and it wells up in his mouth, spills right to the edge of his teeth and out over his lips, slicked around Tyr’s cock, still buried inside. No wonder Nietzcheans spread like wildfire—Seamus thinks if he had any ovaries, he’d be pregnant just from having his stomach full of it. His hands keep going, pumping it all out, like milking Tyr into him. The more he swallows around Tyr’s cock, the more Tyr gives him, until Seamus is gagging and spluttering and sure that his entire chin’s coated in it.

Tyr waits a few good seconds after the stream pitters out, and then he rips away, spraying Seamus’ face in the process. Seamus lets go and instantly doubles over, coughing up gobs of cum and clutching at his stomach. At first, all he can do is wretch for air while the animal part of his brain misses having Tyr’s cock in him.

When he does finally manage to look up, Tyr’s tucking himself back into his pants, looking perfectly calm and collected. As he does up his zipper, he drawls, “I’ll admit you do look decent when you’re put in your place like that, Harper. But as far as your little competition is concerned, _I’m_ the one that got some and not the other way around.” With an infuriatingly casual smile, he turns on the spot.

And he walks off, while Seamus sits on the floor, dazed and dripping and burning up. If he could, he’d stumble to his feet and race after Tyr and demand his own release, for all the good it would do him. But he’s too heavy for it. He can’t think straight. His cock twitches in its confines, and the rest of the deck filters out; Seamus Harper is weak, and he knows it.

He bends over himself and shoves both hands into his pants, touching himself to the memory and the hope that this was just the beginning.


End file.
